that hung from the adjoining wall, but found nothing to alarm him. ‘You’re sure you want to go on with it? We shall have enough to settle with, surely, as it is.’
At this Mr Happerton murmured something about ‘having great hopes of the old gentleman, but not so great as that’. Presently he took his leave – Captain Raff went off to play billiards, which he did with a facility that was rather alarming to watch – and walked in a leisurely way to Holborn Circus and then northwards to a little street that led away from the further end of Hatton Garden. Moving easily between the costers’ barrows and the dry-goods shops, and keeping his boots well clear of the steaming gutter that ran through the middle, he turned eventually into a tiny court, not much bigger than five yards square, and struck his hand on a dirty wooden door whose paint had perhaps been last renewed at the time of the Coronation.
‘Well, Solomons,’ Mr Happerton said, when the door was opened and he was standing in the quaint and almost furnitureless room that lay beyond it, ‘what have you got for me today?’
Mr Solomons was a Jewish-looking gentleman of about sixty, with a hooky nose and very bright eyes, who clearly did not leave his premises very often, unless it was that he was accustomed to go walking off down Hatton Garden in his dressing gown and slippers. Seeing Mr Happerton, whom he recognised and winked at, he went over to a battered desk in the corner of the room and did a great deal of riffling about, during which he was careful to interpose his body between the contents of the drawer and Mr Happerton’s view of them, and came back with a couple of dirty brown envelopes clasped between the thumb and finger of his right hand.
‘There’s these. I had a deal of trouble finding them, as you’d expect, and they ain’t cheap.’
Mr Happerton inspected the first of the papers, a bill in which Samuel Davenant Esq., of Scroop Hall in the County of Lincolnshire, promised to pay Messrs Barstead, saddle-makers, of Sleaford, the sum of £300 on the 30th of June 186–. He knew, as soon as he saw it, that it was a document he burned to possess, but he was anxious not to betray this enthusiasm to Mr Solomons.
‘Well yes,’ he said, casually, looking at the cracked plaster of Mr Solomons’ ceiling and his smeary windows. ‘This is certainly one of Davenant’s. How much do you ask for it?’
Mr Solomons hesitated. He, too, had his schemes. ‘Ah well,’ he began, in what might have been intended as a humorous tone, yet sounded anything but. ‘You’re a sly one, Mr Happerton, indeed you are. If I didn’t know you better, I’d be wondering what you wanted this bill for . There’s no chance of getting it renewed, or selling it on, no indeed. Mr Davenant’s a ruined man, as everybody knows, and there’s not everybody wants his paper.’
‘In that case you can’t have paid so very much for it,’ said Mr Happerton, who thought that he detested Mr Solomons and would never walk up Hatton Garden again.
‘And yet there’s some people that does want it – very badly, it seems. There’s you, and there’s that Mr Christopherson. Perhaps it’s that hoss of his you wants. I’m sure I don’t know,’ Mr Solomons said, failing to disguise a suspicion that he did know very well.
‘I’ll give you a hundred and twenty,’ Mr Happerton said.
‘It can’t be done, sir. Can’t be done. Not with Mr Christopherson being so very pressing. And there’s this, too, sir.’
Mr Happerton picked up the second bill, which was lying in the palm of Mr Solomons’ outstretched hand, and stared at it.
‘Great heavens, man! The signatures don’t even tally. Look how the “a” slopes down over the page. Not that it mightn’t be useful. A hundred and fifty for the two.’
‘It can’t be done, sir.’
There was some further discussion, during the course of which Mr Happerton twice put his hands in his pockets and glanced at the door,
At this Mr Happerton murmured something about ‘having great hopes of the old gentleman, but not so great as that’. Presently he took his leave – Captain Raff went off to play billiards, which he did with a facility that was rather alarming to watch – and walked in a leisurely way to Holborn Circus and then northwards to a little street that led away from the further end of Hatton Garden. Moving easily between the costers’ barrows and the dry-goods shops, and keeping his boots well clear of the steaming gutter that ran through the middle, he turned eventually into a tiny court, not much bigger than five yards square, and struck his hand on a dirty wooden door whose paint had perhaps been last renewed at the time of the Coronation.
‘Well, Solomons,’ Mr Happerton said, when the door was opened and he was standing in the quaint and almost furnitureless room that lay beyond it, ‘what have you got for me today?’
Mr Solomons was a Jewish-looking gentleman of about sixty, with a hooky nose and very bright eyes, who clearly did not leave his premises very often, unless it was that he was accustomed to go walking off down Hatton Garden in his dressing gown and slippers. Seeing Mr Happerton, whom he recognised and winked at, he went over to a battered desk in the corner of the room and did a great deal of riffling about, during which he was careful to interpose his body between the contents of the drawer and Mr Happerton’s view of them, and came back with a couple of dirty brown envelopes clasped between the thumb and finger of his right hand.
‘There’s these. I had a deal of trouble finding them, as you’d expect, and they ain’t cheap.’
Mr Happerton inspected the first of the papers, a bill in which Samuel Davenant Esq., of Scroop Hall in the County of Lincolnshire, promised to pay Messrs Barstead, saddle-makers, of Sleaford, the sum of £300 on the 30th of June 186–. He knew, as soon as he saw it, that it was a document he burned to possess, but he was anxious not to betray this enthusiasm to Mr Solomons.
‘Well yes,’ he said, casually, looking at the cracked plaster of Mr Solomons’ ceiling and his smeary windows. ‘This is certainly one of Davenant’s. How much do you ask for it?’
Mr Solomons hesitated. He, too, had his schemes. ‘Ah well,’ he began, in what might have been intended as a humorous tone, yet sounded anything but. ‘You’re a sly one, Mr Happerton, indeed you are. If I didn’t know you better, I’d be wondering what you wanted this bill for . There’s no chance of getting it renewed, or selling it on, no indeed. Mr Davenant’s a ruined man, as everybody knows, and there’s not everybody wants his paper.’
‘In that case you can’t have paid so very much for it,’ said Mr Happerton, who thought that he detested Mr Solomons and would never walk up Hatton Garden again.
‘And yet there’s some people that does want it – very badly, it seems. There’s you, and there’s that Mr Christopherson. Perhaps it’s that hoss of his you wants. I’m sure I don’t know,’ Mr Solomons said, failing to disguise a suspicion that he did know very well.
‘I’ll give you a hundred and twenty,’ Mr Happerton said.
‘It can’t be done, sir. Can’t be done. Not with Mr Christopherson being so very pressing. And there’s this, too, sir.’
Mr Happerton picked up the second bill, which was lying in the palm of Mr Solomons’ outstretched hand, and stared at it.
‘Great heavens, man! The signatures don’t even tally. Look how the “a” slopes down over the page. Not that it mightn’t be useful. A hundred and fifty for the two.’
‘It can’t be done, sir.’
There was some further discussion, during the course of which Mr Happerton twice put his hands in his pockets and glanced at the door,
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